Broken
by VivyPotter
Summary: "As Mycroft dwelt on broken promises, broken bonds, and broken childhoods," whilst staring into the flickering fire, he realised something. "He'd do it again, if he had to." And it broke his heart.


Mycroft sat in his study, a glass of _Cabernet Sauvignon_ held limply in his right hand. He absent-mindedly swirled it around the cup, the contents coming close to reaching the rim, but never quite spilling. The flickering fire cast heavy shadows on his face, deepening the already significant worry lines. His fingers tightened in an uncommon display of emotion, and the wine began to shake. He took deep breaths and let his hand relax, the glass falling to the floor. The shatter broke delicate silence and Mycroft let out a broken heave of remorse. He leaned his head back against the chair, and closed his eyes.

* * *

_Mycroft gritted his teeth as his seven year old brother rapped on the door._

_"Er, Myc, I think my experiments about to explode!" Sherlock called out, his voice holding a tremor unnoticeably to the average ear. Mycroft, however, was about the furthest you could _get_ from average._

_"Go away Sherlock. You know I have exams this week!" Mycroft shouted as he very carefully added the final strokes needed for his art project._

_"But if one of my experiments explodes again, Mother said she'd have my guts for garters. And I need my guts to survive, Myc! I don't want to die!"_

_"It's an expression Sherlock!" Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth, cursing autism. _

_"But she said-"_

_"And she didn't _mean_ it, that's why it's an _expression_." Mycroft said, squeezing his eyes shut and praying for patience._

_"But-"_

_"Add some kind of neutraliser; I'm sure you can work it out. You are a _genius_, after all." Mycroft heard Sherlock scuttle away and, as soon as he was sure that he was _really _gone, went back to work._

_BOOM!_

_"Myc- it didn't work!"_

_Mycroft stared down at the ruined canvas, destroyed by the streak of yellow paint cutting a sharp line straight through the middle. "SHERLOCK! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"_

* * *

_Mycroft strolled into his bedroom, running a hand through his uncharacteristically ruffled hair. He hoped he'd gotten enough blackmail on Rudy Bradshaw to ensure he was never a problem again, after all-_

_Mycroft stopped dead. He stared at his trashed bedroom; the ripped bed sheets, the torn curtains, the suspicious green stains, the smashed vases and finally, the startled 10 year old frozen smack-band in the middle of it all._

_"Why, hello Sherlock." Mycroft said, pseudo-calmly. "What have you been doing this fine Saturday? I'm assuming you have an explanation for this… mess?"_

_"Um… is there a right answer?" Sherlock asked sheepishly, scratching the back of his head._

_"No." he replied curtly. "I'm sure I can guess what happened," Mycroft gestured to the piratehat perched on his little brother's head, and the sword hanging limply from his right hand. "But why don't you elaborate?"_

_"Um, me and Redbeard were playing pirates." _

_Mycroft glanced at the Irish Setter sitting beside Sherlock. The dog had no shame, and was wagging his tail quite cheerfully. That would explain the brown dog prints and slobber, Mycroft noted._

_"And it all got a bit out of hand." Sherlock finished timidly, rubbing his arm in a classic sign of nervousness. Looked at his brother's stony face, Sherlock raced to appease him, "But don't worry; I'll pay for it all with my pocket money."_

_"Yes you will." Mycroft said grimly, and began pushing his brother towards the door. "Otherwise I'll tell your teacher that you're struggling with Advanced Science and have to be moved down a set."_

_Sherlock gasped and narrowed his eyes over his shoulder. "You _wouldn't_."_

_"Oh, I would. I'll expect your payment in a week's time. Goodbye." Mycroft slammed the door in Sherlock's face with a vindictive smirk._

_"I hate you!" Sherlock bellowed through the wood._

_"I hate you more!"_

* * *

_Mycroft rolled his eyes as he heard Sherlock snuffling through the wall. "Didn't Father praise you enough?" Mycroft muttered as he stalked down the hall towards Sherlock's room. "Did Mother not make dinner to your exact specifications?"_

_Mycroft pulled open the door, a sharp word ready on his lips, when he saw Sherlock. His little brother was kneeling on the floor beside the prone form of his pet, a red stained bat lying beside him. Sherlock's hands were bloodied, and the tears running down his face were steadily mingling with snot. He looked up at his brother and, with his blue eyes more vulnerable than Mycroft had ever seen them, choked out, "I didn't mean to. We were playing and he-he j-jumped up and there was so m-much blood, and I-I…"_

_Mycroft immediately rushed to his brother's side. He wrapped his arms around him and let him bury into his chest, resting his chin on his shoulder. "Sh-sh-sh." He hushed his brother's sobs. "It isn't your fault, it was an accident. Redbeard was getting old anyway, it was less painful this way."_

_"Really?" _

_And Sherlock looked up at him so trustingly that Mycroft couldn't bear to break his spirit._

_"Of course, I'm always right, aren't I?"_

_"Yeah." Sherlock admitted and Mycroft blanched at the red handprints covering his suit. "Let's get you washed off. I'll protect you, I promise."_

* * *

__And he had held onto that promise throughout the years, even when Sherlock went off to University, and he didn't _need_ his stuffy older brother to look after him anymore. But Mycroft had kept an eye on him regardless, and when he saw his little brother, gaunt and haunted by HIS time on the streets, shaking from withdrawal, and screaming at demons invisible to everyone's eyes but his own, he had never been so glad that he did. He had kept his promise still, even when Sherlock yelled how he hated him, when he began purposefully avoiding him, even when he had called him his enemy (oh, how _that_ had hurt). Then John arrived, and Mycroft didn't _need_ to keep such a tight hold on Sherlock anymore, not with Watson on the job. And his promise had faded, fading from his mind and his heart.

Mycroft wondered when his job had become more important than his little brother.

But it _had_. His position was everything, and when it had taken information on Sherlock to complete that job, well, it was all for the greater good, wasn't it?

Mycroft, poor broken Mycroft, remembered the countless men and women who had come up to him to personally thank him for ensuring the safety of their loved ones.

As Mycroft dwelt on broken promises, broken bonds, and broken childhoods, far away from anyone who could have heard his weakness (Mycroft wondered when _love_ had become a weakness), he whispered, "I'm sorry."

And as his dead little brother (because Sherlock _was_ dead, his life torn apart – he even had the gravestone to prove it) fought to fix the mess that Mycroft himself had personally caused, Mycroft Holmes realised with a breaking heart (and wouldn't _that_ be another thing to add to the list)…

He'd do it again, if he had to.

Because Mycroft Holmes was a broken man.

And he didn't think his brother was much better.


End file.
